


The towers of Lyon

by FreyaLor



Category: Historical RPF, History of France
Genre: Sadness, far too much sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 11:08:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12605256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaLor/pseuds/FreyaLor
Summary: The last crucial scene of the Cinq-Mars plot, almost accurate in historical details, except the minor detail of added Louis/Richelieu.A 3-sentences prompt from Naggie. 3 sentences my ass.





	The towers of Lyon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [naggie_w](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naggie_w/gifts).



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Maybe it is the warmth of that september morning, as if summer decided to linger around the towers of Lyon. Maybe it is the low rumbling of the carriage, the lenient light blue sky.

Maybe it is that fever, it never truly leaves me those times.

 

But as I watch Lyon's ramparts approach, answering my King's summoning as I have done all my life, I remember those days, not so long ago, where he would seek me in my rooms alone, and instead of arguments, complaints and threats, he'd cup my face, search my eyes for a while, and let out a bitter laugh.

 

-”You don't do that for yourself, do you?” he used to say. “You never impede me for your own profit. You really, truly do it all for France.”

 

He would snatch away whatever paper I held in my hand, then, and inspect my shaking fingers as if they belonged to a foreign race.

 

-”Even when you exasperate me, you serve me, don't you?”

 

 

I would surely nod, and I would surely want to speak, and since he'd be tired of my speech as he'd so often been, he'd kiss my mouth shut and my knees would falter. When I slid to the floor, he'd just let me fall, barely using his grip on my hands to soften my inevitable descent. When I'd fall on my knees, he'd just smile down at me, and nod towards himself. Breathing “ _serve me, then_.”

 

As if I needed a clue.

 

 

 

 

He tried so hard, as years went by, to be blind to the calling in our skins. He fought, like the soldier he is, against the way our souls completed each other in unquestionable warmth. He denied, he diverted, he fled, he battled, but he always came back to my rooms.

 

Sometimes, just to lay down in my bed, because I never truly slept if he didn't.

 

 

 

We tried so hard, as years went by, but years went by, and trying grew easier.

Sickness came knocking on both our doors, and our hands are dreadfully cold all year long now. We talk, still, sometimes shuffling through paperwork as we both lie in our beds. We argue, still, but there is no fooling anyone by now. We know, as clear as this september sky, that history will engrave both our names entwined forevermore.

I can't chase away all of his melancholy anymore. He can't make me sleep away all that pain as he used to.

 

We tried so hard, but years went by.

We tried, we did, but sickness came.

 

 

It's been so long he hasn't stepped into my rooms at night.

 

 

We drifted apart, so far apart I had to sink as low as sending Cinq-Mars into his bed, to spy on the warmth he once saved for me alone. I would never have, I swear, but my hands are so cold.

 

 

As we pass the gates of the City my chest is shaken by that dreadful cough again, and I don't even look down at my handkerchief anymore. I know the taste of blood by heart.

Sickness came to stay.

 

Sickness came to kill.

 

 

The carriage stops, and La Prée, the Captain of my Guard, a peaceful mountain of a man, opens the door, gauges my face and superbly fails at suppressing a wince. _Oh. Is it so bad?_

 

He offers his arm as support, _do I look so old already?_

I gently accept, for truth be told, my hands are so cold, so cold now.

 

 

 

I step down the carriage, looking at the high stairs of the Hotel Particulier with a bitter look. Around the imposing building, the peaceful mess of the troop's camp. Tents, barracks, tables and chairs scattered in the courtyard, officers and soldiers, machines and horses meddling in quiet equilibrium.

 

 

A few yards away from the Hotel, an infantry Officer I don't remember the face of salutes La Prée, inviting him to a game of chess. I smile, already releasing his arm, allowing the man some leisure time, softly letting out :

 

-”I didn't know you were a man to play Chess, Captain.”

 

-”I am not” He breathes, and I notice his sturdy face bearing a deep, worried frown. “I never played once in my life.”

 

 

We exchange glances, and something snaps in my mind. I look up the frightening stairs with a growing sense of panic in my chest. The Captain resolutely grabs my arm again, whispering that he is coming with me.

 

But to be honest, really, as my heart misses a beat I wonder if it is really worth it. If this is what I fear it is, and if this is who I think it is, then Louis must know, and if he knows.

 

If he knows, he wants it done.

 

 

_He wants it done._

 

 

Sickness may come, and take my life, sickness may come and devour my body, it will never bring me as much pain as this heartbreak does. Oh, if I have lost his affection, if I have lost his trust, I swear to God above I want to die at last.

La Prée is urging me on, and it is by his immense strength alone that I do climb up those stairs, and walk to the King's anteroom doors. Maybe, also, because if I am to die after all, I wish I could at least look at him one last time. Will it be swords or pistols? I heard bullets hurt just as much, oh Lord, there is still so much work to do.

 

 

The Captain, upon one last reassuring look, pushes the anteroom's door open, and stands tall as five armed men surround us. I wish I could shake a bit less. I haven't always been so thin, I haven't always been so tired.

They all have their hands upon their swords, God, is this how it was supposed to be? Right there between those two chairs, under this dusty crucifix, without even a word from my King?

 

I wish I could shake a bit less.

I wish I could speak a little.

 

 

But it is La Prée who talks, gesturing towards his arm as my only support, talking about my old age, my degrading health. One of them claims that Protocol doesn't allow me to step into the King's apartment with an armed man, but the Captain insists. I know I should be terrified, but truly, all I want is to be allowed to cry. Something like a sob is brewing in my chest, and turns into a cough, breaking me in two. For a moment, I think sickness has decided to win the race, as I can't seem to breathe anymore.

 

But La Prée holds me up, and as my vision clears, I see those five men who didn't step back in front of the huge Red Guard paling and averting their eyes, taking two steps backwards and allowing us in.

 

I instinctively wipe my mouth with my hand and look down.

It is soaked in blood.

 

 

 

I moan, pull out my handkerchief and clean out most of it.

A bit dazed, I barely nod at La Prée to open the King's door.

 

 

We step in.

More armed men, all of them Cinq-Mars' entourage.

 

 

Standing behind them, the handsome, despicable face of my own creature.

Sitting on a chair right next to him, Louis the Thirteenth, white as a sheet, staring at me.

 

 

Silence.

 

 

 

La Prée, defiant, bows with a hand under my elbow, the other upon the hilt of his sword. The huge man looks enraged, I have no idea why. It is quite usual, Captain, don't fret so much.

Everyone wants me dead.

 

 

Everyone.

 

 

There is challenge, there is war in that silence, but I cannot care, I don't have time.

My gaze is for Louis alone.

 

 

I know I must look dreadful. I know there must be blood upon my lips. I know I would crumble like dust if the Captain let go of me. But I need to know, if it's the last thing I ever do, so I stand proud, using the wordless language we relied upon for so many years, to speak much sweeter things.

 

 

 _“Tell me now”_ my eyes demand. _“Tell me you want it done.”_

 

 

 

 

He frowns. He doesn't understand.

Could it be he doesn't know?

_Could it be?_

 

 

I inhale sharply at the blissful thought.

 

 

Cinq-Mars next to him starts to pale. La Prée is a strong man, skilled and fearless. He'd make a mess, the young bastard knows. Fears creeps up his powdered cheekbones. He steps back.

When he steps back, all armed men drop their hands.

 

He lets out a strangled gasp and turns his heels to leave.

When the door bangs close, Louis' frown deepens.

 

 

Silence, two heartbeats, my stare doesn't leave his.

 

 

I always liked his eyes. A bit dark, but never harsh, like his father's. I always liked his face.

I always...

 

 

-”Leave, all of you.” He hisses. “I will speak to the Cardinal alone.”

 

 

My heart almost explodes. Someone whimpered. It must have been me.

 

La Prée only lets go of my arm when every other soldier in the room has left. Then, he guides me towards a high armchair, so I can trade his support for the sturdy furniture's. After one last appraising look, he slowly walks out, his hand still gripping his sword.

 

 

Once alone, as I clench my teeth upon the next fit of cough, he steps close to me, closer than he's been in years. Close enough to touch. His narrowed eyes inspect my face, my hands, my neck. I wish I could shake a bit less.

 

I wish I could speak a little.

 

 

 

His dark, sweet eyes finally linger upon my hand gripping the back of the armchair to keep me standing.

 

-”Let go.” He commands.

 

 

I cough one small protest, but he just shakes his head.

 

-”Let go, Armand. _Now_.”

 

 

 

I don't understand, but he called me _Armand_.   
I release my grip in a second.

 

 

Of course, I collapse on the floor like a puppet, but somehow, it doesn't hurt as much as I thought. I feel warm, where does that come from?

When I look up, I realize he grabbed both my arms, easing my fall, gently letting me slide to my knees again. Only, this time, he slowly kneels next to me, pressing a hand against my neck, counting time, listening to my pathetic, wheezing breath.

 

-”It's worsening.” He states, distant. “It won't be long.”

 

 

I nod. I know.

I grab his cloak, desperate, burying my face into the blue brocade, and if I cry, at last, well, I blame pain, nothing else. He lets me. He lets me sob, holding me close, he lets me weep in hopelessness, in sorrow.

 

He lets me let go.

 

 

When my tears slowly dry, and my breathing quiets down, he kisses my brow and whispers, his eyes closed, almost as if he as enjoying the smell of my hair.

 

-”Don't worry, Armand, my darkness, my moon. You'll die in a warm bed with my hand in yours, and wherever you'll go, you won't have to wait for me too long.”

 

 

Tears swell in my eyes again and I gasp some more refusal, struggling to get up, failing, only falling further against him.

 

 

Silence.

 

 

-”Now, Your Eminence”, he adds, quieter. “I heard you have found incriminating documents about Henri d'Effiat and his friends. Show it to me. We'll see about what has to be done.”

 

 

Before I do, I still grab his hand and kiss it twice.  
In the smile he gives me then, I find the strength to carry on.

 

 


End file.
